Mentor's Mind
by LJ Summers
Summary: One-shot. Mild divergence from canon. Haymitch Abernathy has never, not once, had a Tribute survive. This has made him jaded and, at times, numb to all feeling. But there is something about the unheard of Volunteer for the 74th Hunger Games . . . if only he can believe.


_**A/N:** Forgive my diversion, here. I wrote this years ago and just found it and thought...hey, why not? _

_It's kind of a divergence to canon, more than an AU . . . and it isn't going anywhere. Just spending a few moments inside Haymitch Abernathy's head. Because I could._

 _Rating more for mild language and alcohol consumption. I could have gone K, I guess? But I didn't want anyone freaking out over Haymitch's attitude. ;-)_

* * *

 **Mentor's Mind**

Yes, he knew falling off the platform at the Reaping was not really the best image he could offer to the latest walking corpses — Tributes — or the rest of Panem, but Haymitch Abernathy could not have cared one tinker's damn. Not _one_.

What the hell did any of _them_ know, anyway? No one, save the surviving Victors scattered here and there, had any idea of the hell a mentor went through.

So he drank? _So the hell what?_

First, the little girl had been called. Tiniest thing. The white liquor couldn't keep his eyes from seeing the frail merchant-girl who had been summoned to pay for a rebellion that had happened generations before she drew her first breath. How was he supposed to prepare her for the deadly chaos she'd be facing in a matter of days?

The thoughts dashed with furious futility through his brain until he heard a voice call, "I volunteer! I volunteer as Tribute!" Strength, desperation, and fierce need all _screeched_ in that older voice—the voice that shook Haymitch from his renewed desire to fall into apathy. He blinked and focused on the girl who had broken with District 12 tradition.

A young woman, really, he decided, rubbing the haze from his eyes and wishing for an instant remedy to his foggy mind. If she had been a blonde, he might have thought she was the little girl's sister. But her olive skin and dark hair marked her as a Seam girl. Haymitch blocked out the screaming of the blond baby-girl while studying the only volunteer District 12 had produced in maybe forever.

"Go find Mom," the volunteer directed the distraught one. Her sister? Well it made sense, if in an overly dramatic way, though the two girls looked _nothing_ alike.

"No!" shrieked the child, just as she was scooped up by a tall man whom Haymitch knew looked familiar. Darker skin and hair—looked like the volunteer—maybe a brother?

Damn. Haymitch wished he had a better idea of who was who in this place. He could remember all the faces from...before...but the last twenty years or so had been a blur. Once the most important faces were torn away, their lives forfeit for something they were innocent of even thinking, the rest of the faces melted into anonymity.

Safer, that way.

Effie—hell, that woman could irritate a dead man—blathered on while the Peacemakers escorted the volunteer up to the platform. The girl's eyes were focused, determined, and strong despite her obvious fear.

Haymitch felt something within him try to come back to life, seeing that look. This girl, this young woman, might amount to something. Something other than a face on a black Arena sky with the number 12 under it.

"Katniss Everdeen," she said when asked her name. No fanfare. Just a flat statement. It was clear that her focus was on her sister and the man who held her, beyond the assembled young people.

"And now for the boys!" Effie gushed, mincing her steps to the other absurdly large glass bowl. Katniss heeded the Capitol butterfly not at all, but kept her eyes on her little blond sister, who was still crying, though she had been spared a public death at the hands of a monstrous regime. There was a faint sound as paper slips were swished by Effie's too-enthusiastic fingers but then, she pulled one from the bowl and held it as a normal person might display a precious antique or award. "Peeta Mellark."

Haymitch was hoping against his better judgment that the boy was more like the young man with Katniss's sister: Tall, strong, capable, clearly a man to take charge in a crisis. Katniss could use that kind of back-up in the Arena. Already, Haymitch knew he was throwing his weight behind her. It was the curse of being a Mentor; he could only truly support one of his Tributes and pray they were victorious. Or at least do his level best to keep them healthy before they were slaughtered for the Capitol's pleasure. If he managed to get any sponsors for them, the money had to go to the Tribute most likely to survive.

It didn't look like that was going to be Peeta Mellark.

Katniss barely acknowledged the boy's presence. The kid was blond, broad in the shoulder, but he walked like he was fresh from a war, his mind elsewhere. Ah, hell, was he not quite right in the head? His gaze was tentative, like an animal in the Arena about to get hit with an arrow. Clean enough, sure, but he'd never make it.

Katniss it was, then. For certain.

Haymitch grimaced, thinking of dry days ahead, and rubbed at his face as Effie had the Tributes shake hands. He had work to do.

* * *

"Cinna?"

"Mr. Abernathy. Let me tell you what a privilege it is to work with District Twelve," the smooth, chocolate-rich voice in Capitol said.

Haymitch belched deliberately and leaned back on his sofa, crossing his bare feet on the scarred coffee table. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before—"

"No, I'm sincere," the man said, interrupting. "This is my first year as a stylist and I was assigned to Twelve and I couldn't be happier. I saw the Reaping," he concluded, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Live."

Haymitch paused. A believer. Cinna the Stylist was a _believer_. He could work with this. "All right, then. What do you have in mind?"

By the time Cinna finished speaking, Haymitch had to pace back and forth to work out the strange, foreign energy that pulsed through his limbs. Then, he had to climb his stairs, get his bags, and report to the station. The train to Capitol was leaving any time.

But not without him.

* * *

"Peeta. Katniss." Haymitch's fascination with the girl was absolute. It was clear that the boy's was, too. Haymitch studied them both carefully; decades of disappointment had not dulled his instincts about human interrelations. "How ya doin'?"

Katniss stared at him, distrust igniting in her Seam-gray eyes. He didn't blame her. In fact, he was glad she was adversarial. Showed intelligence and a survival instinct. Good. He ignored her and turned to the blond boy.

Peeta rubbed his hands on his thighs and glanced around the lushly-appointed train car. "Worried, mostly," the boy—young man—admitted. "Isn't that where you come in?"

"I'm s'posed to be your mentor. Do you know what a mentor does, Mr. Mellark?" He sneered a little.

The kid didn't pick up on it. In all sincerity, as if he were in school, he answered. "Yeah! You're here to tell us how to win. Give us advice on the Games. Tell us how to get sponsors. We've seen the games every year. Haven't we, Katniss?"

The girl nodded shortly, her eyes sharp. She said precisely nothing, however.

Haymitch let his gaze clash with hers, just to see what she would do. What was she made of? Stern stuff.

An invisible wire grew between them, winding itself more thickly with each second spent in this silent battle of wills. Haymitch knew just when she decided he was only doing this to evaluate her. One of her eyebrows lifted a centimeter, as if to ask him, _Oh, really? Is this the best you can do?_

He laughed. Damn, the girl was good. "Nicely played, Everdeen. Nicely played."

"What? What did she do?"

"Peeta," Haymitch said, knowing he was going to come across as patronizing, but he could only bring out one victor. "Your friend Katniss, here, might just make it."

The tension had worked itself into the boy's psyche, too. He pushed himself up from the club chair and strode from one side of the car to the other. "I know it. My own mother knows it." He stopped and thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You know what she said?" he demanded stridently. More softly, he repeated the question in Katniss's direction. "Do you _know_ what she _said_?" His face contorted, and he could see the boy's eyes water, but he didn't cry. Haymitch had to give the kid credit for that, anyway. "She said District Twelve might have a winner this year. She meant you, Katniss. Not me. She meant _you_."

"Peeta..." Katniss started to say, but Peeta shut her up with a gesture and she sank, her shoulders rolling forward, more deeply into her chair.

"If you're not here to win, you might as well not even step into the arena. Just let yourself die on the pedestal." It wasn't a nice thing for him to say, but Haymitch could not have cared less. "Look, kids," he said, dropping his elbows on his thighs and leaning forward. "We don't have time for self-defeatist talk, here. I mean, right this second? Fine. Get it out of your system. I don't blame you. But by tomorrow morning? You better be ready to work. To listen. Because the game isn't just against the other tributes."

Katniss pressed her lips together and nodded. Haymitch had the impression that she hadn't known she had done so, but he let that go. Peeta, eyes wide and innocent, was taken aback. "It isn't? I mean, who else is in there?"

"It's not who's in there, but who's running the Games. It's the Gamemakers and the Sponsors as much as it is the other tributes. And you have to learn how to win inside _and_ outside the arena."

"So, tell us," Katniss said, her voice flat, her gaze direct. She looked at him as if she didn't expect him to be able to do any good, and that pierced him.

It also ticked him off. "Not tonight," he said, pushing himself up to his feet and stretching back for a bottle of the good stuff. Forcing a nonchalant smile, he saluted them with the bottle. "In the morning. You spend tonight with your whining and whatever you feel you need to do. _I_ ain't gonna listen."

She understood; he figured she might. Still, she shrugged. "Fine."

Peeta stood at her side when she rose to her feet, looking as if he were already putting the pair of them in an _Us versus Them_ space.

Haymitch reminded himself he was used to it. Reminded himself that it was likely they'd both be slaughtered by some overzealous Career from another District. Reminded himself that their distrust had some basis in reality.

He'd never managed to save any Tribute of his before.

When he reached the door to his private sleeper car, he opened the bottle and took a long, long drink.

"Just one," he muttered to himself, toeing off his shoes and pulling at his neckwear. Ridiculous stuff he had had to wear that day. "Well, just one more, anyway."

Before he passed out, he had drained the bottle and it fell from his sleeping fingers.

* * *

 _A/N: Yeah, I know, he's not a nice fellow. Jaded, cynical, and generally operating on the conviction that nothing he says will matter. Or be remembered, as all of his Tributes have died. All of them._

 _Again, this isn't going anywhere. I just found it. Along with a half-started story in the Hunger Games fandom that I lost in GDocs. Who knew?_


End file.
